


Growth and Decay

by Birdie_Lo_Green



Series: Escapril 2020 Prompt Responses [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Breakfast, Hannibal Lecter Cooks, M/M, POV First Person, POV Will Graham, Post-Fall (Hannibal), escapril but not poetry, hannibal has a green thumb and will is under it, hannibal has an outfit for everything, will hates how much he loves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24446284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdie_Lo_Green/pseuds/Birdie_Lo_Green
Summary: Will watches Hannibal in their garden.Written in response to the prompt 'growth & decay' for Escapril on Instagram... but fiction instead of poetry cos that's my jam.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Escapril 2020 Prompt Responses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765582
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Growth and Decay

Decay was what he stole from them.

By the time a tree falls it's only half way through its life line. Degradation is part of its purpose to serve that which it sprouted from, as is the case with humans. Buried in rows like bulbs rather than seeds, we feed the worms and the soil. And yet, any growth is pruned, as though cemeteries reject the living. Friends and family lay down flowers that were plucked or cut in their prime, grown for the purpose of expressing appreciation. On display, their decay puts them back into the earth, via compost or landfill, petals pressed for crafts or memento. Water can be changed to slow wilting, blooms arranged away from the damaging effects of too much light or central heating, but we do not keep once cut. We lose blood. Eating us prevents decay, prolongs the life of the predator who made you their prey. 

I watch him in the garden, curated like his old kitchen and though he isn't artfully chopping or sauteing, his sleeves are rolled up and there is elegance still in the way he waters and weeds, the stains on the knees of his old slacks and the hat he wears like it's the 1950s. Classical music always played whilst he was cooking and I wonder what he's listening to now. I want to ask him if babies are considered a delicacy amongst cannibals, like lamb or veal. I know that he treasures life, that he feels the true tragedy of death is to have gone to waste. He never kills the elderly, I assume because of how they taste. Perhaps he considers it too much of a mercy. He hasn't killed anybody in a long while, too weak from injury and maybe even to appease me. Instead he tends our garden, growing the things that he cuts and the dirt under his nails looks like dried blood. He hands me herbs and I ask him:

"How many graves have you dug?" He looks up, squinting because of the sun, sheen of sweat at his brow.

"Just the one," he says and I know now: he's stolen more than just decay. The chance to say goodbye is impossible without a body to bury. Closure grows up and out of cemeteries and I could imagine him stealing the bouquets laid down in memory. He blew out candles lit by the faithful in churches.

"I never took you for a green thumb."

"A cook must know his ingredients as well as a butcher knows his pig."

"But the pig mustn't know anything."

"Nothing more or less than comfort of the sty and the consistency of the trough."

"Shelter and sustenance are the nails of his cross." I help him to his feet and we return to the kitchen. 

"Put a record on and I’ll make you breakfast."

* * *


End file.
